I am writing this letter to you from Death Row, on this day, the last day of my life. Yes, in just a few short hours, I will walk down that long corridor, to the gas chamber. No priest will escort me, giving me comfort or prayers for my soul. No family will visit me or even miss me when I am gone. My family abandoned me long ago. As a matter of fact, I doubt anyone will ever give me or my death, even a passing thought after today.

The saddest fact in this whole matter is that I am innocent. I have done no crime, yet today, I will die in the gas chamber. I know that others have said if am innocent, all the way to their deaths, but in my case, it is the truth. Let me take you back through my life, tell you my story, then you decide for yourself whether or not I deserve to die.

I do not know my parents. I doubt that they even remember me. I do not think that my parents knew each other for very long. My birth was just the tragic beginning of a tormented life, conceived by strangers. I know that my father was not around for my birth, and my mother did not stick around for very long after. I guess I cannot really blame my mother, she just could not take care of me. As a youngster, I seemed to just fall through the cracks of the system. I wandered around aimlessly, looking for food and shelter anywhere I could find it. Every once in awhile, a kind person would try to help me out, but it was always temporary sympathy, and then they would be on their way, leaving me just alone as ever.

As fate would have it, I wound up pregnant. It was a hard pregnancy. I never seemed to get enough to eat, and having no permanent home, I was always exposed to the weather. I actually slept outside throughout my entire pregnancy. No medical care was available to me. My first pregnancy produced three beautiful babies, but like my own mother, I could not care for them. I do not know what eventually became of my babies. As a matter of fact, I have given birth on three separate occasions, and I do not know where ANY of my babies are now.

Shortly after my third pregnancy, my health was suffering badly. I did not know how to get medical attention and nobody offered to help me. I was very malnourished and extremely weak. One particularly bad day, I was stumbling around the streets, very tired, very hungry, and very weak. I guess I just was not paying attention, but I stepped out into the street. An oncoming car tried to stop, but it was too late. I was knocked down and I felt a terrible pain in my leg. I was sure it was broken. The car kept going, and once again, I was in terrible trouble. I knew I had to get out of the street, so I dragged myself to the curb. Once again, I needed medical treatment, but it seemed that not one person was willing to help me. I still, to this day, walk with a limp, as a result of my leg never having healed properly.

Time marched on, and I continued to struggle along. I was hanging out on the streets one night, and I was picked up by a man. He seemed nice enough at first, he took me home with him, offered me food and shelter, so I decided to hang around for awhile. I am not really sure what I did wrong, but after awhile, he said he was tired of me, could not afford to have me around, and that I would have to go. We got into his car, drove out to an old, deserted road, and he put me out. He just left me there. I was alone again.

After several long days, I found my way to the nearest city. I thought surely I would find somebody to help me out of this hell on earth that I found myself living. Eventually, the police, who had seen me hanging out on the streets for several days, picked me up and took me to this horrible prison where I now find myself. I have been here about a week, and nobody has told me what wrong I have committed. I sleep, eat, and relieve myself in my little cell. The smell is horrible, and it is so very noisy here. All of the other prisoners cry and call out endlessly. It seems that I am being punished for simply being born. How can this happen in such a civilized world?

So, now that you have heard my story, what do you think? Do you think that I must be violent, that maybe I am a bankrobber, or a drug dealer, or maybe even a murderer? Whatever you think, do not feel sorry for me--maybe I will find the peace in death that I have never found in life. By the way, I am not a bankrobber, drug dealer, or murderer, I am not even a human.. I am a dog.